All Roads Lead Far From Here
by Moth Mouth
Summary: Mael has been imprisoned in Dragonsreach for three years after attacking the Jarl. Things don't get much better when he's released into the custody of the Dragonborn Legate.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:This may or may not be finished, cause I'm a fickle bitch and rarely get around to the end of story, but unlike The Red Dot or Taxidermist, I have an idea where this is going.**

** I had to chop it up into segments since holy crap it's kinda long and it's only gonna get longer. Forgive any spelling mistakes, most of the time I write at like three in the morning and I'm kinda out of it /**

The belly of the Dragonsreach dungeon was damp, the stone floors chilled to the touch when Winter swept over the mountains and stirred the city. The air was thick and stifling in the confined space, making a prisoner feel constantly on the edge of choking, or freezing to his chains when the snows came. This year they had come hard. Not even the soldiers who were prone to torturing the inmates would subject the prisoners to this cold.

A guard, enveloped in boiled leathers of red and brown, crossed the great stone hall to the cell at the very end, glancing under his helmet to the man in black rags leaned against the far wall..

"Wickhart," the guard said, close to a snap just to get the prisoner's attention, "I've brought another blanket. You're going to need it tonight."

Mael looked up, struggling to find even the strength to lift his head, and smiled at the guard through his unkempt beard, "Ah, and a good evening to you, son of snow. So kind of you to think of me." His sharp black eye settled on the bundle of cloth under his arm, then flickered up to the soldier himself. Even in darkness, his gaze was piercing, like two dots of white flames beneath his dirty and matted mess of graying hair. He weakly outstretched his left hand, but couldn't move too near the guard for the shackle around his throat that kept him close to the wall. And the deflated sleeve on his right side suggested his other arm had been severed, just below the elbow.

"Come closer then, I don't bite."

The young Nord was pensive for a moment, eying the prisoner suspiciously. His reputation as a silver tongued deceiver and his underhanded tricks were well known to guards of Whiterun. His venomous and honeyed words had proven the bane of many of the other loyal men, and they had been warned time and time again to be careful how they approached him.

When he took too long to respond, Mael laughed, motioning for him to come near.

"You're not afraid of an old cripple are you?" he sighed, "Hurry up, will you? I can't stand this cold a moment longer."

Not wanting to be made a fool of, the guard unlocked the metal door and swung the bars open, tossing the thick blanket over the weathered man, but never daring to step within arms reach of him. Mael gave an amused smirk as he pulled it over his shoulders, chuckling, "I'm such a terrifying sight. I must be, the way you boys react when someone so much as mentions my name. Afraid I'll slit your throat while you sleep?" He laid his head against the bricks of his cell and closed his eyes. The guard was thankful to not have the two dots scrutinizing him any longer.

"How is that Legate of yours, what's his name?"

The guard narrowed eyes on him."You know his name."

He snapped his fingers. "Yes, yes, Legate Ulrer. Another son of snow. There are so many sons and daughters of snow falling in line with the Imperials these days. Never used to be. I wonder how many waited until Ulfric's body was cold before defecting. I'm sure more simply caught a glimpse of the Imperial army and pissed themselves, swearing fealty to whatever King would give them a fresh pair of pants and a pardon."

"The Nords under Ulfric's banner fought bravely," the guard huffed, "They were smart enough to know when to accept defeat. Only more bloodshed would follow if they continued to fight."

"A true son of snow would never accept defeat." he said solemnly, a smile betraying his voice.

Blood rushed angrily to the soldier's face and he pressed himself against the bars.

"What would a backstabbing Breton know of a true Nord?" he shouted, clutching the metal of the cell.

"How long after Ulfric fell did it take you to lick General Tulius' boots? Did his banners still fly? No, I'm sure it was sooner. Was Ulfric still choking on his own blood when you dropped to your knees and started sucking Imperial cock?"

The guard rushed forward, red faced and about to scream himself hoarse when a clattering and creaking halted him. Down at the head of the dungeon a voice called, "Legate Ulrer, look sharp!" and the guard forced himself to peel his fingers from the bars and take a step back. Mael gave a soft chuckle of triumph, and the guard felt a fool for letting the Breton get under his skin, though he was hardly the first to fall prey to this pitfall of a conversation. Mael was fond of pestering the men. One guard had nearly gutted him after he told him his recently deceased Mother was sharing a bed with the Dread Father.

Boots stiffly clacked against the stone floor as Legate Ulrer marched briskly to the only occupied cell, one hand tipped against his longsword and the other wrapped around the iron helmet perched on his hip. A tall bulk of a man, still relatively young to be in the position of power he was in. He wore his reddish blonde hair tied back with two thin braids, the rest falling to chin length. Three perfectly straight scars of varying length ran from the tip of his left ear to the other side of his square jaw, the blow that inflicted it clearly quick and clean, breaking deep enough into the skin to leave a red trace of a reminder. He stopped at Mael's cell, excusing the still steaming guard.

Mael gave the young Nord a weak wave goodbye before he turned to his attention to Ulrer.

"Well met, son of snow. We were just talking about you and your brothers."

"I guessed that by the look on Fenren's face," he replied flatly as he unfurled a scroll from his side. Keeping his helmet pinned to his hip, he began to recite what was penned on the thin parchment in a steady, clear voice, "Mael Wickhart of Falkreath, it is on this day, the second day of Frostfall, that the honorable Jarl, Balgruuf the Great, has moved to release you. Jarl Balgruuf has decreed that you have served your debt to the city for your trespasses and you will be returned to your home, on the condition you are to never return to the city of Whiterun as long as you are considered a threat to her people." He looked up to him momentarily, adding in his own, "And I doubt there will come a day when you aren't considered a threat to us, so consider it a permanent banishment."

"Oh dear, I can never return? But where oh where will I get your charming Pig's Swill wine?" Mael mocked, feigning hurt.

Ulrer ignored the remark and continued, "Your possessions -with the exception of the stolen goods confiscated at the time of your arrest- and lands will be returned to you upon your arrival in Falkreath. I will be personally escorting you back there. To make sure you cause no further trouble."

"You do know how to cut a man, Ulrer. I'm pained you think me a trouble maker. I've mended my ways, haven't I?"

"Highly unlikely that you have, if it were up to me I'd let you rot here, but the Jarl has a kinder heart than I. That pup of yours came crawling in here, shed a few tears, and the next day we have this." He waved the flimsy parchment, "Your boy's as gifted a wordsmith as you, I'll give him that. He spoke in quite moving terms, even I would be convinced if I didn't know your family's talent for manipulation."

"I like to think of it as coercement."

Ulrer rolled up the scroll again and tucked it into his belt, the cell door once more swinging open as he stepped inside and ordered the Breton to stand. Mael braced his crooked back against the wall and pushed himself up, every muscle moving stiffly and with no small amount of discomfort, but in the end he staggered into obeying the command. Ulrer unshackled the chain tying him in place, and the two walked out into the bowels of Dragonsreach, the Legate with his arm around Mael's shoulder to keep him steady as the prisoner was uneasy on his feet. And you never could keep a tight enough hold on the Breton. Even on the day of his release, there was every chance he'd try and take out a soldier or two.

They trudged up the steps, past the guards' quarters- Mael offered the guard he had been talking to a smug grin, the Nord clearly surprised that he was being released-into the main hall of the keep, where the heat from a roaring bonfire at the heart of the room made the Winter months bearable. Two long tables sat on either side, with a throne at the head of the room where Jarl Balgruuf would usually sit, now empty for the moment. Just as well, Mael wasn't eager to see the man anyway. Their last interaction was when Mael had fatally stabbed his court mage and tried to murder him whilst he slept, and he had been paying for it ever since.

The two made their way past this to the great doors of wood and cast-iron bolts. Ulrer rolled them open with a great groan seeping from the rusted hinges and a heavy sigh of the wood, and suddenly a huge burst of wind rushed forward at the two men, whipping a sheet of powdery snow past them, the torches lighting the hall behind them shuddering with the force of the gust. Far beyond them, the roofs of the city were dusted in a thick blanket of blinding white, it crunched beneath their heels as they walked forward onto the streets, caking their shoes, and within moments after exiting the roof of Dragonsreach they too were covered in snow.

It clung to Mael's hair and beard, but he was smiling widely even as he shivered from the biting cold. He was, after all, dressed in little more than ragged robes and the blanket he'd been offered. But this was also the first time he'd seen sky in nearly three summers. His overwhelming happiness at being freed from his chains was more than enough to keep him warm during the walk.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I haven't slept, so the last few pages may have some mistakes, sorry again, just point out any glaring mistakes! And also if the end of the chapter seems a little sudden, in my defense it is an ambush, so I think it's a more faithful portrayal of what the characters felt. Or...You know. It's hard to transition into an ambush/**

Ulrer dragged him on a short short leash through the city, under the snowy branches of the Gildergreen tree in the Wind District, past the merchants in the Plains District -Mael offered them warm pleasantries to which they replied with bewildered looks- and finally through the grand gates of the city. The guards on either side of them gave the Legate a nod as he passed, silently wishing him luck with the mad man in his care. Mael dug his fingers into his beard and glanced around outside of Whiterun's walls, now that he could see past the stone surrounding the city. Plains reached as far as the eye could see in this dazzling white, dotted with curls of smoke from Giant camps, and mountains stretched to the North, impossible to climb in this weather. At their back were the wilds of Skyrim, where the Hagravens stalked through the marshes in tattered rags, and the Sabre cats awaited any traveler that strayed too far from the beaten paths with terrible claws and hungry waiting mouths.

"Such a fine city, such a lovely view of the country," Mael remarked, taking in the sights which he had not laid eyes on in what seemed like an eternity, "Would you indulge me in a short ride? Maybe we can find a mammoth to pet. Ooh, or a wolf to feed! They're so very famished this time of year."

"The only ride we're taking is to Falkreath. If Gods be good we won't see a wolf or a mammoth's hide until we arrive."

Mael pouted like a spoiled child but followed Ulrer further to the stables just outside Whiterun's walls. Two horses had been prepared for their arrival, one brown and spotted mare tied to a pure black stallion with armor laced up his body-the handler hadn't bothered giving Mael's horse any protection-secured to each other by the reins with a few feet of slack rope between them. Ensuring Mael would never ride too far from his escort.

Ulrer effortlessly hoisted Mael up onto the back of the mare. Mael couldn't help feeling like a child, the way the the Legate could so easily heave him over his head.

A quick tug on the rope between them, a pouch of coins tossed to the handler, and soon they were trotting onto the broken road leading away from Whiterun, the Legate riding a few feet ahead having donned his helmet. Mael leaned against the back of his horse's neck and watched the back of Ulrer's head for a long while. He sat stiff and stern, gripping the reins of his steed tightly in his iron grip, eyes set on the road ahead. Painfully proper, maintaining an air of authority. Mael had heard the guards outside his cell recount battles they'd shared at his side, dragons they'd seen him slay, men he had saved, drinks they'd had with him. None had a harsh word to say about him. They spoke only in tones of admiration.

When Mael had first met him, he was admittedly taken aback by the wave of strength that rolled so easily from him. He understood immediately why so many men fell in line at his heels. He did not instill fear, nor even awe. It was more that he wore the scent of battle on him, his burning eyes, sporting those gnarled scars, Mael could almost smell the blood stained snow when he approached, taste it at the back of his throat. It was a thrill to imagine him leading the brigade, the sharp edge of his longsword cleaving men in two. The way he carried himself now, it must be a shadow of his true potential, and it was still an alarming presence. The side of him that showed in battle was almost unfathomable.

Mael knew the men didn't follow him because they were told to, they followed him because they knew, some small part of them knew, he would lead them to victory. He needn't say a word to draw their ferocious loyalty. It made Mael curious what kind of life the living embodiment of war lived when there were no wars to be fought.

"Do you have any children?" he asked suddenly. They were passing a waterfall by the time he spoke up and his words were nearly lost beneath the roar.

Ulrer looked back at him, arching a brow.

"What?"

"Children! Do you have any?" he repeated. He pushed back his messy hair from his eyes, "Little Dragonborns, you know."

"...I do," Ulrer grunted after a moment's thought, unsure of how much he should reveal to the murderer, "A son... I'd rather not discuss my family with you."

Mael raised his hand in surrender, "Fine, fine. I just thought a little conversation might make this a more tolerable trip. We'll be together for a few days you know."

"I'm aware. Personally I think it will be easier to handle if you don't talk."

There was another long silence as they began to break through the winding paths that twisted into the woods. An occasional rabbit's head would pop out of it's hole, but it was largely still, mute under the hush of snow.

Mael scratched at his jawline, cursing under his breath how damned itchy he was with facial hair. He stared at the back of the Legate's head for a mile or so, an act not lost on the Legate as he could feel his eyes burning into his skull, keenly aware of his gaze. Mael had eyes like a hawk, never blinking, always taking in every detail of his surroundings and every flinching movement, nothing escaped him. Ulrer hoped against hope those eyes hadn't settled on his small twitches of restlessness. How he began twisting the reins around his knuckles to ease the uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck, where Mael's eyes were pinned to him. Mael had noticed, and it greatly amused him how he was beginning to get a rise out of the son of snow.

The family conversation had hit a wall for the past fifteen minutes or so when Mael spoke up again.

"I have a daughter myself. Anne, sweet little thing. Timid as a deer..." He waved the stump of his arm, "Of course last time she saw me, I had two arms. Might be hard to explain why I don't anymore."

A small stab of guilt cut at Ulrer.

"You brought that upon yourself. You ran," he said with just a touch of indignation.

"Yes, yes, I was there, I remember. But I also remember being left to fester in the dungeons for a week before your men brought me anywhere near a healer." He shrugged. "I don't blame you personally. You're a man of honor. You treat even the lowliest criminal like me with some manner of respect. I can't say the same for the men that follow you."

Ulrer knew better than to respond. It made his blood hot for his brothers to be called dishonorable, he wouldn't give Mael the enjoyment of an argument. And there was a part of him that knew they had done the Breton wrong.

Almost a month after they had captured him trying to murder the Jarl, he had attempted to escape through a tunnel hidden in his cell, leading straight out of Dragonsreach. The Imperial soldiers were alerted and took chase, all the way into the mountains where Mael could have lost them, if it weren't for a sudden avalanche of rocks that came crushing down upon them all. Two of Ulrer's men died, and in the chaos, Mael's arm became wedged between an immoveable boulder and the crags of a mountain. In their anger and desperation to capture him again, they took action, hacking into his flesh with a heavy battleaxe and dragged him, bleeding half to death, back to Whiterun.

They hadn't even tried to roll the rock away before bringing down a blade to his flesh.

They had a healer tend to him at first, giving enough care to keep him from death but made sure he was still in agony when they tossed him into a cell again.

Perhaps for some semblance of revenge for the men that fell chasing him, they kept a close eye on him to avoid another escape, but ignored entirely when he was overcome with a fever and what was left of his arm became infected under the dirty bandages they didn't bother changing.

Ulrer was absent for most of this, only returning when Mael was on the brink of death. The Breton had to lose more bits of his arm to chase the infection. Ulrer had reprimanded every man that saw him dying in his cell and did nothing, but the damage was done.

As much as Ulrer hated him, his men alone were responsible for his maiming and this was something he simply couldn't argue. So he said nothing in return.

"Do you think she'd believe me if I said a dragon ate it?" Mael continued, rolling up the sleeves of his robes to examine the wrapped up stump. Ulrer hid a small smile. He could not deny the man had a sense of humor, even if was cruel at times. "Or maybe I lost it to pirates. She's always been fond of pirate tales. Maybe I single-handedly killed a pack of wolves and one ran off with it."

"Or you fought off a Forsworn invasion and saved all of Whiterun, only to lose it in the fray." Ulrer added.

"Ah, there we go! I slew a dozen Forsworn! You and all your men would be dead if it weren't for me. Then you all were so grateful you didn't want me to leave until now."

He cackled and let his sleeves fall back over the old wound, satisfied to have annoyed and gotten Ulrer in a better humor in a short amount of time and so was quiet once more.

A wolf howled in the mountains rising around them as they entered the thick wilds where the packs overran the rugged peaks and snowy wilderness. They were only a short distance from Whiterun at this point, but had begun a steep ascent into the mountains, far enough that the towering walls of even Dragonsreach were lost through the white dusted trees, both knew it would be hours before they reached a suitable campsite. But night was a long ways away, and the most they really had to worry about were bandits and keeping warm in the swirling snows. Ulrer had practically mapped every bandit camp and dragon's nest for miles, so occasionally they would diverge from the road and cut through the forests when they came to a marker he had made to keep track of them.

The Legate was clearly more inclined to deal with the wild animals than the vagabonds that took to nesting in the abandoned forts, and the thick canopy of leaves lent some protection from the skies.

As they made their way back to the road and it came to rest aside a rushing river, Mael began to feel a chill run up his spine, a shudder racking his bones.

But it was not the cold.

He felt eyes on him as he glanced into the forests they'd been muddling about in for the past hour. Not the eyes of watchful deer or even the hungry gaze of a sabre cat, but something far more intelligent, something more maleficent. His eyes darted anxiously from the forests to the Legate. Should anything happen, he knew Ulrer would protect him, not for any sense of friendship of course, but because it was his duty to bring him alive to Falkreath. While this should have eased his mind, it put him slightly on edge, for the Legate clearly didn't notice anything amiss.

Ulrer was too enthralled with staring at the way ahead of him to notice, until he heard the Breton breath a soft, unintelligible phrase and he felt a subtle pulse of pressure against his back, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He whipped around, about to ask what that was when he saw the panicked expression on Mael's face. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a sudden crack like a clap of thunder pounded against the side of Ulrer's head and Mael's voice was wasted to a painful ringing that filled his ears. He slumped against his horse and tried to regain his composure, eyes flitting over an arrow that had bounced uselessly off his helmet on the ground when another whizzed past and stuck in the metal plate of his horse's armor. Though it was nowhere near sharp enough to fully pierce the thick layer of chainmail, the abrupt blow startled the beast and it reared back with a frenzied whinnying. Before Ulrer could even process what was happening, he slid from it's back, smashing into the unforgiving ground in a cloud of upset snow. Two more arrows brushed past him before he could gain his bearings and roll behind a rough rock at the river's edge.

He was already out of breath as he drew his longsword and peeked out from behind cover to try and pin down where the archer had hidden, only to be greeted by another arrow that narrowly missed blinding him. He cursed under his breath and quickly glanced to Mael, who was uselessly pulling on the rope connecting the horses to calm them down, as the second horse had taken to panicking as the first. Mael was safe for the moment since the archer had clearly set their sights on Ulrer, so the Legate took a chance and left him, whether he made a run for it was of little concern at the moment.

Ulrer flattened against the rock as yet another steel tipped arrow brushed past him and cautiously peered into the thick forests the projectiles burst from. A silvery glint sparked behind the leaves as another arrow was loosed. In the short beat in between this one and the next, Ulrer darted from cover and dashed for the trees, realizing much to his chagrin that a group of men and women in patchwork armor had oozed from the woodwork wielding axes and warhammers. White and blue pelts and leathers were strung with bits of rope around their bodies and kept them hidden in the snows, even now, only being a few meters away from them, they could vanish from Ulrer's sight in an instant if they stepped back into the veil of white fog.

One bellowed an ear splitting warcry and rushed forward at him, axe lifted, poised to bring it down on Ulrer's head. Weighed heavily by his armor, Ulrer swept away to try and dodge the blow but it fell to his shoulder anyway, though his armor took the brunt of the attack and the dull axe didn't make contact with flesh. It had enough force behind it to make him stagger a half step but he caught himself before he offered an opening and sliced his longsword upward at the first member of the ambush. The bandit jumped backwards to try to avoid it, but the tip of the blade met him and sliced through his clothes with ease, and when it came to his chest, Ulrer took a quick step forward and lunged the steel through his sternum, bone and organs offering no resistance to the razor sharp edge of the blade as it tore through his heart. Without wasting the time to draw the longsword out, Ulrer swiped to the side and opened the bandit's ribcage to free the sword, cutting through his body like paper. His lifeless and mangled corpse fell from the blade into the blood speckled snow.

The longsword caught the edge of another axe as it came hurtling towards him, the white cloaked bandit bearing down on him with all her might. Ulrer planted his heel in her stomach and pushed her back hard into a tree trunk. A sharp flash of pain caught him off guard and he stole a glance at his arm to see the fletching of an arrow jutting out from his bicep, but hadn't the time to spare on it before the third bandit rushed him. Wielding his warhammer low at his side, the bandit struck at Ulrer, aiming for his ribcage when the bloodied longsword trapped it's head and the thin steel of the sword quivered from the power behind the impact. The vibrations spread up the blade into the pommel and made it difficult to keep a hold of the blade, but Ulrer clenched until his knuckles ached and held fast. He dug a heel into the blanket of snow until his boot touched the frozen earth beneath it and pushed back hard enough to make the bandit stumble. The woman had apparently caught her breath from the swift kick to the gut and swiped wildly at Ulrer, who tried desperately to dodge, only to find his movements sluggish, the dull axe brattling loudly against his armor. He growled fiercely and let her get in one last, futile blow before he draped his arm across his chest, throwing it out with as much force as he could and bashing her in the face with the grip of his sword. It was met with a nauseating snap as teeth and jawbone alike shattered and the woman fell back shrieking through a mess of thick red jaw fragments. The second bandit once more came barreling at him and Ulrer groaned inwardly, readying his sword in front of him.

Only when the bandit came within arm's reach of him, a vibrating ball of yellows and reds came streaking towards his back, screaming so quickly across the road it was almost impossible to see until it smashed into his shoulder blades. He emitted a cry of pain and reeled around. Ulrer could see now that flames swiftly washed over him, tiny sparks leaping from the blaze at his back to the ground and melting holes in the snow, every frenetic turn and twist he made flung stripes of fire in every direction. The woman, clinging to her wound cried and reached out to him, but it took only a matter of seconds for the fire to consume him entirely and the struggling died with him as he crumpled into a heap in the snow. Ulrer stepped back, dumbfounded at first, until he looked up and saw Mael on horseback a few feet away, palm lit with a swirling remnant of the fireball he had just unleashed on Ulrer's attackers. He gave the Legate a crooked grin and closed his fist around the flame, embers sputtering from between his fingers, then going silent.

Although still somewhat taken aback, Ulrer crossed to the weeping, bleeding woman, and planted his foot in her back. He buried his longsword into the top of her skull.

"The bowman ran after the first one fell," Mael shouted to him, "I was going to smoke him out, figured it was better not to set the forest on fire though."

Ulrer grunted irritably, ripping the arrowhead from his arm. A small spurt of blood followed and the tip tore open the skin, but the wound was shallow. The Legate bent down to drag the flat of his longsword against the bandits's clothes and brushed away the blood coating it. He glanced at Mael.

"...You cut the rope," he muttered, referring to the blackened tip of the rope that had connected their horses, "Where's my horse?"

Mael nodded over his shoulder, "Yours got spooked. Not a very good war horse, is he?"

"Putting armor on him doesn't make him a war horse. Clearly."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Sort of uneventful chapter yaaaaaay. But just to prove I'm still working on it, since I have a tendency to drift off on stories. This is mostly a sort of set up chapter, I guess. A little bit of backstory on both Mael and Ulrer too. Something will happen in the next chapter, I promise. Probably. /**

Mael chortled, rolling his shoulder and then his neck. His fingers still tingled from the burst of magicka that had ignited the fallen bandit, this being the first time in a long time he'd practiced a spell, and it was one of the most simplistic spells he knew. Still, he felt drained even more than before. His horse trotted to Ulrer's side and Mael offered his hand to help the Legate up. They would be riding together after all, at least until they caught up to the Legate's panic-struck steed. Ulrer ignored the gesture, probably for the better since there was very little chance Mael could have lifted him, and clambered into the saddle in front of the Breton. He clicked his tongue to urge the mare on and the two set off again. They left the bodies where they had fallen, the flames that had taken the second bandit having extinguished once they charred the man to bones and ashen flesh, ensuring they wouldn't spread into the woods. Ulrer kept his eyes stuck close to the road, watching attentively as they rode to keep track of the most recent set of hoof prints that had settled into the snow. Mael rested his chin on the cool metal of Ulrer's shoulder and looked up to him with an immature look of wonder.

"You're fun to watch." he mused wearily.

"What?" Ulrer looked down at him, arching a brow. He considered which he found more unsettling, the feeling of Mael's hot breath against the beads of cold sweat on his neck, or what he said and how filled with awe it seemed.

"I said you're fun to watch. I knew it'd be interesting to see you fight, I'm glad I got to witness it firsthand." He cringed a little as he saw the trail of blood dripping down the Legate's arm. "I mean, I'm not glad we were ambushed, but...you understand what I mean."

"I don't and I think I may not want to." Ulrer mumbled. He chewed the tip of his tongue a little before he reluctantly complimented, "That was...a rather impressive bit of spell casting. I'm not overjoyed I got to see it, of course. But it was none the less interesting. And I suppose I should thank you for it."

Mael clapped him on the opposite shoulder, "I couldn't let my escort go and get himself killed, now could I? And besides, the Dragonborn deserves a better death than bleeding out in the snow at the hands of filthy bandits."

As he spoke, he shifted to lay his hand over Ulrer's wound, which made the Legate wince. He was about to scold him when a sudden flash of warmth on his shoulder made him stop. Light flooded out from under Mael's hand, a golden and heavy mist that sparkled like fine bits of dust catching in the morning sun, and he suddenly became very acutely aware of how painful the axe blow had been against his arm, only for it to dissipate seconds later. When Mael withdrew his hand, the little hole of a wound was gone. Ulrer mumbled his thanks and examined the clean flesh of his shoulder. His eyes flashed to the Breton.

"Why does an assassin practice healing spells?" he asked, "I would think you'd be more practiced in fireballs and lightning bolts."

Mael sank to rest his cheek against Ulrer's armor, drained from the small amount of exertion.

"One must learn to preserve life before one learns to take it...You gain an appreciation for the fragility of it... A better understanding of how easily it can be snuffed out. I believe you should truly recognize the beauty in anything you plan to kill." He smirked and looked up at Ulrer, eyes half lidded. "I make sure all of my brothers and sisters have an understanding of how the body works. This way they know which method of dispatch is the fastest, the quietest, and the least painful. Or the most, depending on what the client wants..."

Ulrer almost chastised him for speaking of death with such romanticism, but thought better of it when he considered it might be dangerous to argue the ideals of an assassin who just sent a man to his death by fire. Mael was practically asleep anyway.

It was dusk by the time they reached the small hamlet of Riverwood, and they had yet to see a sign of Ulrer's horse, the continuing snowfall having covered it's tracks before they caught up to it. They had given up on their chase hours before they crossed the threshold of the small town set by the lake. It was devoid of any real activity at this hour, the shops packing up business for the day and the townsfolk left their toiling to share the night with their families. The sound of axes splitting firewood and the churning of the water mill were beginning to dwindle and die as well. The whipping winds and harsh snows had left the town untouched as well, which especially gladdened the temporary companions. The two slipped down from their one remaining horse as the darkness of night began it's slow descent. Mael relied heavily on Ulrer for support as they climbed the steps of the local inn, The Sleeping Giant, one of the children that had been following them curiously since they arrived held the door open for them. The innkeeper still gave him a startled look as if he had dragged a dead body in and plopped it in a chair. Mael, his one arm wrapped over Ulrer's shoulders, tried to smooth down his hair to look more presentable, even if his hair was far down on the list of things that made him look like a frozen corpse, and smiled widely at Delphine. She snorted quietly.

"Good evening, milady," he croaked, "Might we rent lodgings for the night? Two beds, preferably, we're abstaining from anything carnal until after our wedding you see, we want the first time to be specia-"

"Preferably a room where I can chain him to something."

"Ooh, darling, you do know how to challenge my good upbringing-"

Ulrer grabbed Mael's wrist and twisted it hard downwards.

"Stop," he said simply, knowing the Breton was only being cute because they were in the presence of others. Mael responded with a sigh of defeat that said he was too tired for antics anyway. He kept a firm grip on him as he addressed Delphine, "Evening, Del. I take it my room is freed up for the night?"

She nodded, still somewhat amused by the Breton, and crossed to a locked door at the head of the inn. After unlocking it and swinging the door open for the pair, she handed off the key, giving Mael a half-entertained, half-threatening look, silently warning him that, while she found him a little funny, not to cause her or Ulrer any trouble while they were here. Mael gave a forcefully energetic salute in response. Ulrer carried the drained Breton to one of the chairs set up against the wall and lowered him down carefully into the seat. He ordered a round of ale and some dinner for the both of them, as well as a bedroll, which Mael immediately knew meant he was sleeping on the floor that night. How he was beginning to hate sleeping on the floor. At least he was getting a free meal out of the affair.

"Wait here, don't leave this room unless it's on fire," Ulrer ordered. He stepped out, catching Delphine by the arm, "If he makes a run for it, you have my permission to cripple him." She agreed and the Legate went out into the fast dying day to grab supplies before all the shops closed for the night. Mael, in the spirit of sheer stubbornness, pushed himself up and slunk to the chair on the opposite side of the table, closer to the door. He plopped down and sank against the wall. He had never resented his incarceration more than he did at that very moment. Having stopped to rest for a moment, he wasn't alerted to how much he hurt all over until he started moving again. The inside of his legs and upper thighs were raw and burning from straddling a horse all day, his sides straining from every small motion. Ulrer hadn't been confined to a small cell for the past three years and so was not hit as hard, but Mael realized as the pain began to settle in and felt the drag on his spirit from the lack of magicka left in him, just how much his abilities had decayed in what he thought was a somewhat miniscule amount of time. He breathed a quiet sigh and let his chin rest against his chest, opening his palm. A perfectly spherical burst of a bright energy came forth, burning white hot at the heart of it and seeping out into a sky blue, the edges sketchy and uneven, glaring like the sun. He smiled to himself and waved his fingers to rotate it. The magelight was fainter than he remembered. Or more likely, he just didn't have the power to make it any brighter. He carefully slipped his fingers through it, letting it roll over the back of his hand, then flicked it across the room to the nostril of a stuffed deer head mounted on the wall, where it stuck to the dead thing's nose and gave off a soft illumination to the area around it. Mael was almost tempted to test out the rest of the spells he had let atrophy, but knew this would be unwise in his current state.

"Pretty," Delphine commented plainly on the ball of light stuck to mounted deer head. She set a wood bowl and plate in front of him, the bowl still steaming with fresh apple cabbage stew, the plate carrying a heavy cut of venison with a side of garlic potatoes, half a loaf of bread, and a wheel of goat cheese. Mael's eyes grew wide, his tongue involuntarily lapping against the roof of his mouth.

Delphine tipped her head towards the magelight, "It's not going to stain anything, is it?"

Mael bubbled a retort, already chin deep in the stew he had attacked with a renewed vigor. He hadn't waited for utensils, but Delphine laid them on the table anyway.

"Must have had an awful hunger." She smiled a little and put down two bottles of ale beside the plates. "They don't treat prisoners very well up there in Whiterun, do they?" Mael blinked and looked up at her, saying something that only ended up muffled by the stew he refused to part from his lips. She grabbed the fur bedroll from the door and set to unrolling it beside the regular bed, "Ulrer doesn't come out to these parts unless it's Legion business. And you certainly don't look like a Legion boy, so you must be a prisoner, and if you're coming down from the North, you must be a Whiterun prisoner."

Mael swallowed down a lump of soft cabbage.

"Aye... I did some time in Whiterun." He snapped his eyes shut and looked away, showing in a dramatically morose fashion how it haunted him, forcing his lips to tremble, "All for stealing a loaf of bread...to feed my ill child. Is that justice? I ask you!"

He shed the act quickly enough and grabbed the bread, sopping up the sweet stew and tearing at it ravenously.

Delphine clearly wasn't dim enough to buy it, answering to his sob story with a noncommittal grunt. Having prepared the warm nest for her guests, she clapped the dirt off her hands and took the seat across from Mael, tearing off a small pinch of bread from Ulrer's plate.

"So what'd you really do?"

"Killed the court mage." The confession tumbled off Mael with no resistance. He had never been shy about his killings, anyone that wanted an explanation got one."It would be the court mage and the Jarl if I hadn't been interrupted."

"Why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?"

Mael shrugged.

"Why does a man do anything? There was good money in it. I admit, it wasn't quite worth the time I served, but it was a hefty pay."

Delphine propped her chin up in her palm.

"Mhm. How hefty?"

"Hefty enough to support my family for the entirety of my time away with some left over for a sprawling manor or two. And maybe a good cow." Mael glanced down at himself and grimaced at the bits of stew in his beard, looking back up at Delphine, who seemed none too surprised by his activities, "Say, you wouldn't happen to have a razor on you?"

"Why would I trust an assassin with a razor?" she asked simply, producing an iron dagger from a belt loop.

"I ask you not as an assassin, but as a wholly unkempt man whose excess hair is driving him stark raving mad. Give." He grabbed up the dagger and she made no move to take it back. After a few more hurried mouthfuls of food, he staggered somewhat shakily to his feet and gingerly limped to the small basin stand by the bed, where a mirror had been hung on the wall. He twisted his head a little to expose the skin of his neck and chin and began delicately cutting the hair from the roots. He momentarily looked to Delphine's reflection behind him. She looked back with nothing short of disinterest. Clearly, she didn't see him as a threat, even with a sharp dagger in his hand. It made Mael wonder what innkeeper was so calm in the face of a trained assassin. Or maybe he just wasn't as imposing as he once was. This thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

The two of them talked for a spell while Mael shaved, swapping stories, Delphine's stories suggesting she was indeed far more than an innkeeper, or was at one time. She talked of dungeons and uncovering secrets amidst Draugr infested ruins. Mael's stories hardly stacked up. And most involved sneaking up behind someone and sticking a knife in their throat so he figured they weren't for polite conversation. She was also quite familiar with Ulrer, and told Mael of the time they fought a dragon together. This story especially peaked his interest. He, in turn, told her of their encounter earlier that day. They spoke of battles, plunders, discoveries, ancient tombs and relic weapons. Many of the more epic stories came from Delphine, but Mael had his share as well. And unlike Ulrer, Delphine wasn't so guarded about her family, so the two talked of this as well. By the time the Legate returned with a sharpened sword, lugging a bag of fresh food and other supplies, Mael was a tad more put together with a clean shave, if a little polluted from the round of ale he and Delphine had gone through in his absence. He stared at the Breton at somewhat of a loss at first. He gave Delphine a acerb look as he realized she had given him something sharp enough to shave with, to which she gave a shrug. He sighed in exasperation and set down his shopping, stripping the heavy leather and metal of his armor, taking in a grateful breath of air with the weight falling from his shoulders as he laid the parts of his armor down in the corner.

Delphine saw he was in no mood for much company, so she said her goodnights, thanked Mael for the conversation, and slipped back out to the bar to tend to customers.

Mael brought his leg to his chest and rested his chin against his knee and watched Ulrer closely as he tugged on his boots and sprawled onto the coarse furs of the bed. Without the bulk of Legion armor, he could see flashes of the thick red scars criss-crossing over his chest and abdomen through the thin cotton of his undershirt. A particularly nasty burn scar bubbled up from the top of his collarbone down over his heart and snaked around his ribs on his left side. The question of it's origin burned in Mael's mind, but he already knew the answer. He recognized the touch of dragonfire as soon as look at it. He anxiously tapped his fingers against his knee as he searched for the moment to speak up.

"What's it like to kill a dragon?" Mael asked in a sudden, blurting manner, just as Ulrer's eyes began to droop.

The Legate jolted slightly and rubbed his eyes, sitting up with reluctance. He stared at Mael through half-lidded eyes. Clearly, his exhaustion had faded for the moment.

"Now what gives you the idea that I've killed a dragon? I've never even seen one. Go to sleep," he deflected. He reached for the lantern at the bedside.

"I can't possibly sleep without a bedtime story," Mael replied quickly, smirking at the Legate, "Tell me about the dragon that gave you that scar. To burn the Dovahkin, it must have had a terrible strength."

Ulrer twitched slightly, reflexively looking to the old wound on his chest. He scowled and draped his arm over his legs, moving from the lantern to glare at Mael. He already knew him as a hard headed man, and by the glittering motivation in his eyes, he knew he wasn't going to drop the subject until Ulrer gave him what he wanted.

"...Fine. But I'll take your other arm if I hear another word out of you for the rest of the night."

"Consider me mute."

Ulrer bowed his head and contemplated the question. His mind raced to the sleek black scales of a great dragon that laid at his feet, his longsword lodged deep in the base of it's sloping throat. A futile gag of flames spilled from it's mouth and the pain of the forgotten battle brought him back to reality, making him suck in a sudden, quiet breath as the gnarled flesh over his heart echoed the searing flash of fire that created it. He slipped his fingers against the bare skin, running his fingers numbly over the painful scar. Mael still eagerly awaited his answer, so he swallowed hard and decided to answer his first question, hoping it was enough to avoid the story of one of his most prominent scars.

"To kill a dragon...It's...satisfying, I guess is a word for it..."

"How so?" Mael urged him on.

"Well, it's the same as conquering any other big beast. It seems impossible at first, and you hack and you slash until the thing is dead, and suddenly you realize you've done what you thought could not be done."

Mael pouted.

"Surely it must be different than killing a wolf or a deer. To kill a dragon, it simply must be more than that. Go on then, son of snow. Tell all."

Ulrer furrowed his brow. Damn it he was pushy. But it did give him pause to think. He had never really considered the rush of excitement he felt in the back of his mind when he felt that shadow at his back, when the earth shook and the sky was cut in two by a Blood Dragon that swiftly dived at him. He had never tried to really explain it before. Perhaps because it was near impossible to describe. And also, perhaps, because he felt a sick pleasure he didn't care to admit when he rendered a dragon to bones.

"...When the final blow is struck and the beast goes down, you have a moment to breathe again." Ulrer hesitated. "...From the moment you hear wing beats until the moment it's scales fall from it's bones, it's impossible to take a breath. It's like...It's like being pulled under by a riptide. The river carries you a ways and crashes you into the rocks until your head breaks the surface again and it feels like the first taste of air you've ever had. I cannot lie, it is far more than satisfying... It's..."

"Life affirming."

Ulrer smirked.

"Yes. That's a good way to put it."

"And the scar?" Mael once more urged him forward.

Ulrer grimaced, his plan to avoid the story clearly failing. Too tired to argue and most assured Mael would pester until his curiosity was slate, he sat forward, crossing his legs, and again the image of the World Eater's final moments were brought to the forefront of his mind. The aurora of lights above Sovngarde, stars swirling overhead in a dizzying array of colors. The warmth of the Hall of Valor, which he cast away like a heavy cloak as he ventured out into the open world, the shriek of Alduin calling, beckoning him to come and fight, or watch the world of the living and of the dead burn and buckle under his Tongue. He cut these thoughts short and gestured to the wound.

"A gift from an old friend." He tried to sound steady, sure of himself. Like it wasn't a memory that woke him up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. He wouldn't allow himself to show weakness in the face of this assassin. "There. You've had your story. Now go to bed."

Mael, though clearly not satisfied with the answer, frowned and unwillingly crawled out of his chair to the bedroll on the floor. When he settled into the thick cocoon of sheep and goat fur, caked with a layer of dust, Ulrer killed the light of the lantern and contemplated tying Mael up for a short moment before drifting off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: I've been writing and rewriting this chapter for like a week, but here. Take it. GET IT FROM MY SIGHT. This is probably gonna be the last ambush. Probably not though cause I am having so much fun writing these fights./**

It came quickly for the both of them, the veil of sleep gently listing over their consciousness. Eventually the tavern cleared and Delphine sent the stragglers of the night to their rooms or out into the chill of snow, the full force of night bringing with it whistling winds and a thick layer of powdery snow. Some blundered stupidly along the steps, thick with ice, and by the time the moon was high in the cloud speckled sky, the Sleeping Giant Inn was deserted. The place had only slept until the dark hours of the night when Mael jerked awake at the sound of a floorboard thumping. At first, he barely registered the noise, and his head sank back against the pillow, only for a rustle of cloth to send a cautionary shiver down his back. The light from the lantern dead and the fire pit in the main hall extinguished, he bolted upright into complete darkness, eyes wide and wild and sightless through the inky black cloaking him. Jittering anxiety dropped his stomach like a stone as he turned to look in every direction, only to be met with the same impenetrable darkness. Something flashed along his peripheral, darker than the shadows around it, but was lost to the blackness before he could make it out. Another creak and another flash of a figure set his nerves to prickling. He fumbled for the edge of Ulrer's bed and pulled himself a little closer to the Legate. Mael cursed him for not so much as stirring, and began to wonder how he made it to the status of Legate when he was so blithely unaware of his surroundings and the dangers lurking there.

Mael slipped his hand over the bedding, fingertips brushing against warm flesh and hair, and he gripped at Ulrer's wrist, pressing his nails into the Legate's skin to try and wake him. No response. Much as he was sure he could handle any dark things bumping in the night, he much preferred if Ulrer was the one to deal with it, the Legate being a much taller and younger and bulkier fellow. Another soft sound of wood. He tried again to rouse him again, grabbing his shoulder, hoping a small shake would be enough to do it, but Ulrer groggily mumbled something and swatted his hand away. Now Mael was just getting angry. He hauled off and smacked the Legate hard across the cheek.

Just as he heard Ulrer's spluttering noise of shock and the screak of bedding as he shifted, he gave another grunt of surprise, a sudden spray of something wet and warm splashed his knuckles. Mael shot to his feet, a magelight springing to life in his palm, the light spilling from between his fingers illuminating the room in thin strips of icy blue. He slung it blindly into the dark and it stuck to a black and red clothed chest, the light cascading over the figure that perched precariously above Ulrer's head. The shadowy figure batted uselessly at the magelight and frantically lurched back, clattering to the floor. In the bath of light, Mael could see Ulrer clutching his throat, blood blooming between his fingers from a thin cut against his neck, red staining the blankets where the initial spurt of blood had splashed the furs. Mael leapt onto the bed and scrambled over his legs, snatching at the black and red cloth from which the magelight still flowered. He threw himself from the bed and pinned the stranger by the stomach, knee pressing into his gut and his arm catching him by the throat. Emerald green eyes stared up in shock at him from the shadow of a cowl draped around their mouth and nose and a lick of black hair spilled from under the cloth. A black hand-print painted onto the leather plate on the attacker's chest made Mael flinch, but dig his arm further into their windpipe.

"Are you out of your mind?" he hissed quietly, nose inches away from the Dark Brotherhood assassin, the magelight casting dark shadows across Mael's sharp, gaunt face. The assassin squirmed beneath him, a lump wriggling under Mael's grip as he tried to swallow. An initiate by the looks of him, his armor still fresh and crisply clinging to his frame, the leather of his gauntlets still molding to his form.

"I came for you, my Listener-" Mael gave him a quick jab in the throat before he rose his choked voice enough for the Legate to hear him. He glanced to Ulrer as he stupidly clambered from the bed, still trying to stanch the bleeding from the thin ribbon of a wound. Should he get his hands on the initiate, he would no doubt slay him with an extreme prejudice, and worse, think the fool's plan to be Mael's, and send him back to Dragonsreach. The very idea of it gave him an unfamiliar weight of dread, fearing for the stupid young man and his own freedom. Mael slammed his palm against the ball of light on the assassin's chest, killing the magelight before Ulrer could get a look at the young assassin.

"Wickhart!" Came the Legate's worried, strained shout.

Mael grabbed the Dark Brotherhood initiate by the collar and hauled him to his feet, rushing to the door with the initiate in his grip. He heard Ulrer curse and fumble in the darkness as he battered through the doorway, the metallic sigh of bolts across the room letting him know the ruckus had not gone unnoticed by Delphine and the other guests. He flew across the inn, his steps scarcely disturbing the floorboards, the initiate stumbling and tripping behind him. He was swift when the need arose, even in his dilapidated state, he was quicker than a fox kit on it's first hunt and silent as the morning snowfall. The initiate looked back as Ulrer swung a lantern from the door and staggered into the main hall of the inn, pale from the ever increasing blood loss as the thick red streams leaked from his neck, and another dab of candle light met the first as Delphine threw herself into the main hall as well, sword at the ready. The duo crashed through the door, stumbling onto the iced porch as the Legate and innkeeper took chase. The light of the moon flooded through the open door for only a moment before Mael, casting aside the initiate, slammed it closed, pushing his weight against it. It rattled as something impacted the other side. His breath came in shallow puffs now, a stitch in his side making breathing at all slightly difficult. He pressed his palm against the door as another heavy pound opened it a crack before he forced it closed again.

Waves of dark purple smoke climbed like plumes of a thick miasma up the doorway, rolling between his fingers, and sank into the woodwork. While he could still see the wood bulge under the weight of the blows and very much feel the striking on the other side, the door did not budge an inch, even when he cautiously stepped away. It was sealed shut.

Turning to the young assassin, he grabbed him up again and hastily spirited him to the riverside, praying to Aedra and Daedra alike no one would wake before this fiasco was finished. He was more than certain the door would hold, and worried only that there was another way out. He threw him to the muddy ground where the water had met and eroded away the land.

"What is the meaning of this?" His voice was hushed, but it was not the volume that was cutting. It was the pure venomous hatred that tumbled from each word.

The initiate, having been given a moment to catch his breath, held his throat where a red mark had begun to form from Mael's arm. His cowl had been pushed back, exposes short ringlets of black hair.

"I-intended to free-you, my Listener!" he croaked, some words catching in his strangled voice.

"Free me from what, you buffoon?" Mael stepped towards him, dark eyes burning with nothing short of fury.

The young man looked up at Mael like a child being chastised by a parent for pulling the cat's tail. More than being fearful of his punishment, he looked afraid of disappointing his Listener.

"F-from the Legion's imprisonment my-Listener...The others-said you-were being held...I-tried t-to free you on the road but-"

Mael cracked the boy across the mouth, knocking him onto his back.

"Why do you think I have not asked for help thus far?! They know my affiliations with the Brotherhood, they know where to look should I escape. They could ruin my life if the Legate does not make it to Falkreath and back!"

The initiate scurried away, curling in on himself and nursing the greenish bruise already speckling his jaw.

"The sanctuary...We-could hide you-they would never-"

"And I would have the gall to ask my family to hide away from the world as well? Think, stupid boy! It isn't my own protection I fear." He swept up next to him, jabbing a finger in his chest, "Now listen to me and carry this with you back to the Sanctuary. I will be home soon, I will return to my family. In less than a fortnight I will return to you all. Until I can, and until Ulrer Iron-Bearer is back in Whiterun, you will not harm him. You will not show your face to either of us. The same goes for anyone else in the Sanctuary!" He was kneeling now, eyes locked with the initiate's. His eyes were blacker than ebony, the smallest dot of moonlight shining in the pools of absolute hatred that stared out from under his dark hair, small circles of light penetrating the pitch black orbs, but just barely. In them there was the accumulative malice and darkness of years of service to the Dark Brotherhood. All at once, terrible images seemed to swirl like a whirlpool of damning deeds, every life he had taken resonating in the blackness of his eyes. As Ulrer commanded faith and unbridled devotion in those he lead, so Mael commanded fear. Fear, and an unspoken threat looming just beyond his anger, his teasing, his knowing smiles. It was in his best and worst of times, there always a reminder in his dark eyes. He was a predator, one with snapping jaws and claws that would reach you wherever you go to run. His eyes told you a killer lurked behind whatever guise you chose to see in him. A Father. A prisoner. A Listener. A killer all the same.

"You will leave him alone. If, after he returns, you hold a grudge, I will slay him in his bed myself if you only ask me. But not until he reports back to Whiterun! Is that understood?" The young assassin nodded slowly, rising to his feet and holding a hand gingerly to his jaw.

A sudden resounding blast like the shattering of wood made the two jolt, instincts compelling them to look to the Sleeping Giant Inn, where they knew instantly the door had not held. Mael's mind raced. The boy could escape, but there would be questions about him, questions that would only puncture whatever story he dreamed up to explain why Mael was unharmed. He grabbed the boy by the quillion of his dagger and drew it from it's sheathe, shoving it into the boy's hands. He looked perplexed, even as Mael positioned the tip of the blade to rest just above his hip, the metal pressing against the inward curve of his belly to his pelvis. He drove it into his skin to the hilt.

"M-my Listener!" the initiate exclaimed, though it scarcely rose above a breath. He looked horrified, turning a sickly green as blood rushed forward from the deep wound to meet his grip, instantly soaking through Mael's flimsy rags, dribbling down his cloak.

"I killed your parents," Mael quickly explained through gritted teeth, "You came for revenge, you saw the opportunity to kill me on the road but couldn't, you followed us, Ulrer has scared you off before you could deal the killing blow...Ngh!" He shoved the young assassin back, pulling the blade from his stomach along with him, as another torrent of blood came spilling out without the dagger to stop it.

"Now go!"

The young man hesitated, but Mael barked his command again. The figures of Ulrer and Delphine were fast approaching, and even though he looked like he still might be sick having stabbed his master, he turned and dashed a step, wisps of black clouds curling around him, and then he was gone, blinked out of existence itself. Mael let himself sag weakly into the snow, doubling over and pressing a hand against the wound to stem the flow of blood that dripped to the earth. The pain was bearable -or would be, if he wasn't already aching all over- only the warm, slick red he felt slowly draining from his body was worrying. He was reconsidering his placement and just how sure he was he hadn't hit anything vital when Ulrer barreled over the waist high wall of rocks on the side of the road, nimbly bounding down the hill and skidding to a stop beside the bleeding assassin.

"Wickhart," he shouted in astonishment. He placed a hand on the Breton's back and stomach to hold him and keep him from collapsing completely into the river. A piece of cloth had been crudely bundled at his throat to tie off the wound, "Wickhart, what's happened-" He was about to ask when his hand brushed against Mael's and he felt the blood pouring from him like an uncorked wine bottle. Silenced before he had began, he hefted Mael to his feet and hoisted him half way over his shoulders, dragging him back to the inn and ordering Delphine around all the way. As Mael had suspected, the door had been completely blown from it's hinges, laying in scattered pieces around the steps from the power Mael knew only a Thu'um possessed.

Ulrer carried him into the protective warmth of the inn and to the bed of his room, laying him across the jumbled mess of furs. Delphine came in on his heels, a bundle in her arms of glass bottles swishing with a burgundy elixir, a roll of bandages, and a jar of something Mael couldn't identify. The entire tavern had been awoken long before this point, but now they crowded at the door, murmuring to each other and parting to let Dephine in and out, then swarming the door again.

Ulrer's stern face was a mask. He didn't seem all too concerned with Mael's possibly mortal wound, nor was he completely at ease. It was a sort of pinched expression somewhere between stressed panic and concentrated calm. He shifted the blood soaked robes away from the wound, revealing the straight gash just above his protruding pelvic bone that poked against his skin. Dark red blood had begun to pool in the famished contours of his body. Though quickly slipping in and out of focus, Mael swore he saw something flash in the Legate's eyes as they darted from the wound to his ribcage, visible under the pale flesh stretched thin over his bones. He grabbed a piece of cloth, folded into a square, and pressed it against the deep wound, holding it in place with a steady level of pressure to stem the bleeding to some degree. When he asked what happened, Mael told the story as well as if he'd rehearsed it a dozen times, telling him of the boy he orphaned in Markarth that didn't exist, how the boy sought revenge, how he attacked him in the night and dragged him out to the river. As untrusting as Ulrer was towards him, he accepted the story at face value. Mael wasn't sure if he should be grateful or insulted Ulrer thought he was such a viscous murderer he readily believed Mael killed a child's parents in front of them. Then again, he _had_ done that before.

Cleaning the wound with a stinging concoction that sizzled into the open gash, Delphine peeled back the squared cloth and took over Ulrer's place, Ulrer himself moving to the washbasin to clean the coating of blood on his hands. The water turned bright red almost at once. Delphine scooped up a handful of what Mael now saw was a gelatinous green paste, riddled with bits of leaves and petals, and pressed it against his wound, working it into his skin. It was a strange sensation, like the numbing cold of a burn after it had surpassed the initial flash of pain. She discarded the cloth, soaked through with blood. Ulrer turned on his heel and watched intently as Delphine pressed another creased piece of fabric to the wound, holding it in place as she began folding bandages over Mael's midriff to keep it there. Her eyes riveted on his when they began dripping closed and she dug her thumb into the wound through the dressing, smirking with some satisfaction as he convulsed and his eyes flew open again.

"Don't fall asleep," she ordered.

Mael let himself sink back against the pillow with an agitated snarl.

"There was no need to jam your finger in my guts to make that point... Downright cruel, like you _want_ to hurt me. Me, a poor cripple, after I have been so savagely attacked by a ruthless ruffian."

"Don't act like you did nothing to deserve that little prick." Ulrer was unwrapping his own makeshift tourniquet from around his throat, the sticky dried blood that caked his neck clinging to the cloth as it ripped from the injury. His comment, to Mael's surprise, stung almost as painfully as the four inch knife wound in his stomach, which he wanted to argue was more than a "little prick". But he said nothing, looking away to the far wall.

Ulrer cleaned away the blood from his neck with a splash of the darkened water and applied a fresh layer of actual bandages instead of the wash cloth he'd shoved up under his chin into the wound before, though the bleeding had stopped by now. He regarded Mael with an indecipherable gaze, absently brushing his calloused hands against the bend of his neck, the shadows on his face in the low light twisted by the longest scar streaking across his features like a crack splitting open the earth. He had never thought of Mael as anything but a prisoner, an assassin. He'd been the one to find Farengar, who's throat had been slit with such force he had nearly been decapitated, his body crammed, contorted beyond recognition, into a chest in the court mage's bed chambers. Sometimes he shuddered to think what would have happened to Jarl Balgruuf if he had been only a few moments late.

But there was something different in him now, as he lay obediently still under Delphine's touch, something Ulrer couldn't begin to explain. It wasn't as if he could revere him as any more of a vile creature after learning of him orphaning a child, he always assumed he did that on a regular basis. Nor was it really pity, as he looked on the thin, graying, crippled shell of what had once been a threat. As much as he belly ached and tried to garner pity, it was truly no exaggeration to say he was crippled.

But it wasn't that.

It was something like a new found respect. Or maybe gratitude? Ulrer remembered now the look on his face after the orphan boy had tried to kill him in his sleep, the look of panic and worry as the magelight exploded in his hand, and how he leapt across the bed to grab him. He could write it off as concern for Mael's own safety, but he wouldn't fight for his own safety. He'd run, hide away somewhere and never be found. And if it weren't for him violently slapping Ulrer awake, his throat would have remained at the mercy of his attacker, and the wound would have been deep enough to bleed him out before he could rise from the bed. He still hated the indurate boaster, it was impossible to really like him after what he'd done to Farengar and the orphan boy, but now he owed him two debts.

A debt for the arm his men had taken, and his life.


End file.
